


Face the Sun

by pudding (pudding_and_poison)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies), Hawaii Five-0 (2010), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Because those are my favorites, Case Fic, Crossover, Fix-It, Fury is a meddling meddler who meddles, Getting Together, Insecure Clint Barton, Insecure Phil Coulson, Insecurity, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Protective Steve, Slow Build, mentions of the Bus Team, so much hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pudding_and_poison/pseuds/pudding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It could have been a quiet week at Five-0 Headquarters. Actually, they almost managed five quiet days in a row!<br/>If it weren't for the return of a serial killer and the discovery of eight new victims on Friday...</p><p>Or:</p><p>The one where Clint didn't knew Phil was alive until they have to work together again and both of them just hurt all the time, Steve tries to make everything better, while Tony is confused to have two Steves around and Five-0 is 100% done with Shield's shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As strong as you were

**Author's Note:**

> Well, hello!
> 
> I'm the Pudding part of pudding_and_poison and since Poison uploaded her own stories I kind of decided to give it a try too. We'll see how that turns out! (Actually, I have no idea what I'm doing. Fortunately, Poison helps me out by beta-reading.)
> 
> English is not my mother tongue, so please feel free to help me improving by pointing out spelling mistakes or weird word choices.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading and let me know what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> \- The Pudding

The week had been strangely quiet. No gruesome homicide case to work on, no missing persons to find, no information withholding suspects to threaten with a dangle from the roof and no Steve to yell at because he actually did dangle people from the roofs. Only loads and loads of paperwork waiting to be filled out. Danny couldn't remember such a long span of time spent at Five-0 headquarters with nothing but the scratch of his pen on paper and the clicking sounds of his keyboard. He couldn't remember any other week as relaxing as the current one since Steve came waltzing into his life and decided to kind of just _annex_ Danny and never let him go again. He could definitely do with more calm days every now and then. Actually, they all could - even Steve, although he wouldn't even admit it to save his life. With a soft snort, Danny let his pen fall onto his desk and ran both of his hands over his face while leaning back in his chair.

Two years ago, when he had followed Rachel to Hawaii in order to stay close to Gracie, close to his little girl, he wouldn't have imagined to end up in a special task force ran by an imprudent kind of super ninja Navy Seal commander. Hell, when he met Steve for the first time, both of them pointing guns at each other, he'd never seen himself leaving HPD on a whim for that guy just to end up in his own posh office. Then again, he hadn't planned on losing his wife to Step-Stan and being forced to move from New Jersey to Hawaii in the first place. Everything had been so twisted, mingled up in the most confusing ways that time. But through all of it Steve had proven himself to be... insane actually. He'd been reckless, fast and dangerous, an alarmingly addicting force. There hadn't been any hesitation on his side when he'd drawn Danny into his own little revenge against Victor Hesse, his father's murderer. Unrelenting, he'd dragged Danny into his life just like he himself had bursted into Danny's to turn everything upside down. Sometimes Danny believed Steve wanted - or rather needed - Danny in his life to fill the hole his Dad's death had left.  
It had taken Danny a while to actually notice this urge of his self-proclaimed partner, even longer to understand it. And sometimes, he still wondered...

A sharp rapping noise startled him out of his thoughts. Raising his head, Danny spotted the object of his musings standing in the door frame, hand still uplifted from knocking at Danny's door.

“What just happened? Steve freaking McGarrett learned how to knock? Yeah, no. I should have a word with Jerry; I might have broken you or the universe or some– What's wrong, Steve?” Danny cut himself short as soon as he noticed the dark expression on his partner's features. It didn't take more than one look at Steve's pinched eyebrows and his tense stare for Danny to know that something had gone terribly wrong. Not daring to joke about the situation in any kind, Danny already braced his hands on his table top to stand up without waiting for a response. He didn't ask questions, just followed Steve silently down to the labs.

As always, the air wafting around them smelled odd when they entered the long hallway that led to the forensics. There was a faint note of lemon underlying the general dusty scent, almost completly overlaid by harsh sanitizers; A heavy mixture pressing it's way inside Danny's nose, a combination he would forever associate with a metal gurney and death.  
"I'd hoped we wouldn't be called down here before monday. So much for a weekend without mulling over a new case..." Danny mumbled as a tiny shiver ran down his spine. Steve's reply only consisted of a noncommital huff as he pushed open the lab door at the end of the hallway.

"Gentlemen, it's a pleasure to see you, whereas the conditions of our meeting could be more pleasant," Max even voice greeted them after the lab's door fell shut behind them. The small figure of the doctor was bent over one of the reasons for their visit, covering most of the body from their eyes like they weren't allowed to see it yet. Behind him, three other gurneys were neatly lined up, all of them covered with white sheets. The shapeless masses underneath them seemed a bit to bulky for human bodies and Danny was pretty sure, he didn't really need to see them up close. "Thank you for hurrying, Commander McGarrett."  
"No problem. Just show us, what you couldn't tell me on the phone."  
"Or just tell us in person. Showing is overrated nowadays," Danny quipped in hastily with raised hands as if the gesture could stop the doctor. But Max was already stepping aside and moved to other side of the gurney, clearing the way for the dreadful sight. Slowly, Danny lowered his hands, curling them into fists by his sides. Next to him, Steve inhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tense with unvoiced curses.

"As you can see, the victim displays large flesh wounds with a varying degree of depth. Over half of the bones are heavily fragmented or broken. Splinters have injured internal organs, causing further heavy bleeding which is probably the cause of death. I have a few tests running to confirm my theory," Max explained indifferent as ever, "Time of death: about 48 hours ago. Identifying the sex of this corpse without removing the tissue and restoring the skeleton is impossible, but the other three are all male. They show similar wounds, severe fractures especially at their columna vertebralis -their spines, Detective Williams- and their skulls. Because they were found and probably murdered in a narrow alley, my guess is that they got thrown against walls and down on the floor multiple times without being able to break their falls. That would explain the defensive wounds here... but also here." Stopping in his elaboration, Max took his time to point out at several deep cuts slicing up both of the victim's forearms and calves.

"They lay or sat down protecting themselves desperately with their own bodies..." concluded Danny after swallowing heavily. His mouth tasted like bile.  
"I made the same assumption, Detective," Max nodded while he hooked his thumbs into the edges of a deep gap, pulling skinned flesh away to reveal bloodied and cracked ribs. "When I searched for imprints left by the attacker, I found these marks. They don't match any set of teeth of the local fauna and I honestly think they don't match any animal at all. The pattern is just too irregular. You, gentlemen, are not searching for a wild dog. You have to search for a person - as scary as that sounds."  
"And oddly familiar," Steve added darkly.  
"Yes, I'm afraid. These injuries fit the profile of the Berserk. But the damage is much worse than a month ago. Whoever has done this, they didn't stop as we had hoped. The Berserk is back. And even more furious than before."

Seven weeks ago, it had started.  
They've had a new case on an almost _daily_ basis, always with the same sight at the scenes: someone ripped up, beaten to death, heavily injured and only identifiable by their teeth. There were never witnesses, no connections between the apparently random victims, no marks of any known weapon found on the bodies without any explanation how a human being could cause such injuries with nothing more than bare hands. Then, after nearly three insane weeks, it had just stopped and they were left with a shitload of unanswered questions.  
A few days later, the name Berserk had come up at Five-0 headquarters and it stuck. Just like the images of faceless, deformed corpses spread around their numerous crime scenes...  
Still, this was different; a whole new level of frenzy they couldn't assess anymore.

“Didn't deem _that_ to be possible,” Danny snarled with a vehement shake of his head like everything needed to fix this whole mess up was some convincing denial.

They had to finally end it.

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Danny braced himself for a good rant to compensate what he just saw and heard, but he was interrupted by a low buzz from Steve's pockets. While Steve answered the phone, Max covered the gruesome rest of a human being with his crisp sheets. Danny closed his eyes for a moment, biting back a frustrated scream and his own fear. Hard work lay ahead of them. He needed to be calm and collected or else he wouldn't be of any help to Steve, Five-0 or Hawaii...

"We have to go. Chin said to brace ourselves. This one is tough," Steve ended his call, bid his goodbye with a curt nod in Max's vague direction, while he went for the door already. Danny sighed loudly but only got a yelled answer from the hallway: "This day won't get any better from standing here till dusk, Danno, so come on!"

~

Chin awaited them, standing in front of a small, white painted bungalow. Its well groomed garden implied the image of a vacation house but nothing else was out of the ordinary; besides sick looking forensic people lining up at the front porch, having just as ill seeming police officers from HPD standing right next to them. A heavy silence embraced all of them, hollow eyes were turned down to stare at grass between shoes. Danny's stomach felt like it started to knot itself around his insides, leaving nothing but the certainty that Chin hadn't lied to Steve. This crime scene was a nasty one.

"Are you ready?" Steve asked him, hand already laying on the door knob but not turning it. The glance he shot Danny over his shoulder was filled with concern, making Danny huff. With a deliberate gesture of his right hand, he demanded to be let it, even though he knew exactly that he wasn't ready in the slightest. The expression on Steve's face hardened, his jaw tensed, flexed and tensed again like he chew on some unsaid words. In the end, he jerked his head once and turned back to the door. Carefully, he pushed it open a tiny crack.  
Danny had never seen Steve's body tensing as fast as it did now. He seemed to be ready to bolt any second despite choosing fight over flight his entire live. Unease rolled off his stiff posture and he actually had to shake his head a few times before he was able to open the door wider. When he stepped into the house and freed the way for Danny to look inside, the detective knew exactly what had caused Steve's hesitance.

"Good Lord..."

"You don't have to tag along, Danny. Just stay outside," Steve allowed him, but he shook his head vehemently, already reaching out for one of the masks a forensic assistant on the porch handed them. Hurrying, he covered up his mouth and nose to be able to breath through the reek that wafted around him before he pulled on some shoe covers. Fumbling for the black gloves in his pants pockets, he trailed behind Steve into the house.

It was a bloody mess dripping all around them.

Every step caused wet squishing noises and a protesting squeak like the wooden floor curled in on itself under their feet. Danny took a few calming breaths, before he let his eyes travel up from the ground, taking in the blotched wallpaper. Once, it must have been white, but now dark smudges of dried blood covered most of it. Maybe even a few other fluids Danny didn't want to think too much about. A bloody hand print had been left on the door that led to the bath, a room he decided to skip for now based on the intensification of the rotten stench the closer he got to it. Even Steve needed a moment to brace himself before he was able to enter the room, settling his feet carefully on the slippery tiles. Turning away with a shudder, Danny made his way to the main area. From the corner of his eyes, he counted torn limbs and other remains of at least two or three different victims in the hallway.  
Suddenly, the idea of standing in front of the house with the forensic staff and the officers seemed pretty appealing and like the most sensible thing to do.

Sidestepping a heap of broken wood and glass that may or may not have been a coffee table once, he reached the living room. The nasty sound of heavy drops falling down on the ground every now and then hung in the air, uninterrupted by any other sounds. There was a muddy puddle in the middle of the room, half covering the formerly bright couch, half seeping down onto the wooden boards. Dark drops kept dribbling down. 

Danny stopped dead in his track, when he glanced upwards, his mouth sagging open under the mask that could barely ward off the heavy smell. The stale air left a foul taste of bitterness on his tongue when he finally managed to shout loudly over his shoulder still staring at the ceiling.

“Steve!”  
“What is it?!”  
“Get here, dammit!”

A few moments later, creaking sounds behind him revealed Steve's arrival. His steps faltered a bit and continued notably slower until he reached Danny's side. Together they frowned at the ceiling, none of them able to voice their thoughts yet. The man whose upper body was wrapped around the arms of the chandelier stared silently back at them out of his dead, wide opened eyes. His guts kept dripping down bit by bit.

“Any idea were his other half is?” Steve interrupted the silence finally.  
“My guess; somewhere in this house mingled with his buddies...” Danny winced. His nose began to itch and he felt sick. They had seen their share of ugly crime scene especially in the weeks the Berserk had been active. But draping someone's torso around a chandelier like some bizarre garland was extreme. Even for that guy.  
Danny could already taste bile on the back of his tongue. He tore his eyes away from the tangled mass of limps and organs, crowned with a pale head and a face twisted grossly in pain and fear. The sight of the floor saturated with blood didn't help to calm down his stomach at all. This was bad.

“We've seen enough. Let's get out of here.” Steve herded him gently through the mess and outside to the porch. Removing the mask from his face hastily, Danny took some moment to just breathe some fresh air through his open mouth. He didn't envy anyone who had to go in there and clean up the whole scene while searching for any signs and clues that could lead to their culprit. Their sick, sick culprit. Cursing under his breath, he left the mask, his shoe covers and gloves with the forensic people and made his way for the car where he waited for Steve who talked to some officers for some minutes.

“HPD says there are signs of a violent intrusion but they have no idea about tools or weapons that were used so far,” Steve shared his information while driving them back to HQ. “However, they did find about a dozen guns at that place along with some technology none of our people have ever seen before.”  
“Just who were those guys?”  
“There were no documents that could help identifying our victims, so we don't know yet. But judging by their gear and the way they died, I suppose someone took law into their own hands and dealt with a terrorist group. It may have been the Berserk, it may have been not. We're going to find out.”  
Danny made a noncommittal sound and an aborted motion with his left hand, sinking back into the passenger seat. Steve's consideration sounded logical, it wouldn't be their first act of self justice on the island. And the violence etched deeply into the crime scene revealing wrath and hatred matched the previous Berserk cases. But still... Something didn't really fit, there hadn't been any connection between the random victims, not even an idea of a motive and the long pause didn't make any sense. Beforehand, the Berserk had terrorized the island, killed about a dozen men and women. It just didn't seem fitting to Danny that this new act of violence should be understood as an attempt of protecting Hawaii.

“Why would the Berserk stop a month and continue now with a whole group of terrorists when there were only single victims before?” Frowning Danny turned his face towards the window watching buildings pass by.  
“Who knows what's going on in the mind of a murderer? I don't, Danno. I really don't.” At the sound of Steve's defeated sigh, Danny's ribs seemed to tighten around his heart painfully.  
So much for a care- and crime-free week.

~

“Mrs. Hekekia's and Mr. and Mrs. Davidson's witness reports include every aspect everyone else who residents closely to our crime scene told us already: A group of young people from the mainland moved into the bungalow about six weeks ago. Eight persons were counted; five of them male, three female. They seemed to be undergrads spending their vacation time here. They went out a lot but only left in small groups, never all of them at once. They didn't talk much to others, only kept to themselves, never brought other people home. So nothing new from interviewing the last neighbors,” Kono finished the summary of her day's work. Her dissatisfaction was obvious by the way her forehead wrinkled into an unflattering frown and she avoided eye contact with every other team member gathered around the computer table. It reminded Danny strongly of her young age and he had to suppress the urge to beg her to go home and let them handle it. Certainly, the plea would only irritate her more and yes, Danny knew she was strong, she could take care of herself. But it didn't change the fact that this was the most awful case she'd ever worked on. It would take its toll on her soon if she didn't lower her expectations.

“So half of our supposed mainlander students were killed in the alley, the other half in the bungalow, the massacres only a few hours separated from each other. No IDs or passports, not even a credit card was found at the crime scenes. However, there were guns in the house, combat knifes, even some kind of light armor fitted perfectly for every one of our victims - who were pretty well equipped for some terrorists,” Steve tried to make sense out of the collected facts. “Based on their gear they were mercenaries. Which doesn't explain why they came to Hawaii, what they tried to achieve here.”

“Or who killed them,” Danny added with a pointed look in Steve's direction. The former Navy Seal was still thinking about a possible terror attack, Danny could read basically it from his strained face. But they mustn't loose focus on their primary goal: finding the killer, stopping him from murdering more people. So far, there might have not been any other victims. Danny was certain that it wouldn't stay that way.

“Well, yes.” Steve's admittance came hesitantly. “We should find out who they were. Maybe there is a connection to one of the Berserk victims. We have to know if we start chasing that guy again or if we happen to deal with a copycat killer - Chin, any news from Max?”

“Actually, yes. Even though, it's maybe not as helpful as we'd liked.” Chin's eyes were fixed on the table's screen while his fingers tapped heavily onto its surface. His motions were slower than usual and he seemed to be as tired as Danny felt himself. Six days had passed since the discovery of their eight victims, six days of musing, wondering and therefore sleepless nights. Max not providing any useful information was not what Danny was hoping for.

“Neither finger prints nor scar patterns got us a hit in any data base,” Chin started his report on the doctor's findings nevertheless. “No dentist documents or other medical records could be found, although Max came upon severe injuries of bones and organs of all eight corpses. He assured me those wounds were caused antemortem, some of them even years ago. And they were treated with care and access to well-funded medical knowledge and modern equipment. Unfortunately, Max could only discover one implant in the foot of one of the women. It's a tiny screw and its serial number doesn't match conventional serials.”

“Which means it can't be tracked to a doctor. Great! That's just great.” Danny threw his hands in the air wearily.

“No it can't, Detective Williams, that's true,” Max's even voice announced the doctor's arrival. All four of them turned around to face the door in surprise. In scrubs and slippers, holding a magnifier in his right and a watch glass in his left hand, Max stood there, an unusual smug expression ghosting over his face. “But I just found an embossing that makes tracking a certain doctor unnecessary. Please, see for yourselves.”

After Max placed the watch glass with the screw on the tabletop, Kono took the magnifier first. Her frown deepened even more while she examined the little metal piece. Shaking her head a bit she handed the magnifier over to Chin, stepped back and crossed her arms over her chest. Obviously, she couldn't make out whatever Max deemed so important. Chin however made a chocked off noise in the back of his throat. Wide-eyed he glanced up to Max, straightened up and made room for Danny who scrutinized the screw next.

It looked like any other screw he'd seen in his life besides the random numbers running around the head. Flexing his jaw, he tried to figure out the specialty of this screw when his gaze fell onto a little emblem centered in the row of numbers.

On closer inspection, a schematized eagle spread its wings over the screw's head.

From afar, a clatter reached his ears and he needed some moments to realize that the magnifier had caused it when it fell from his hand down on the table. Still gaping open mouthed at the screw he tried to gather his thoughts, tried to figure out what this revelation meant for them. Meanwhile, the screw gleamed back at him innocently in the rays of sunshine falling through the windows. Like its origin didn't change everything for them.

“Damn...” he whispered. “That's certainly explains why those guys are in no data base.”  
“And why they were armed to the teeth... We should keep it out of the press for now. Their involvement would only cause confusion and fear,” Chin added thoughtfully while Steve reached for the utensils to take a look himself.  
“Yeah... We don't want to inform them too early. They gonna figure it out soon enough anyway and when they do they will send people to us. For now we should try to investigate on our own as good and fast as we can. Working with them is always a freaking hassle.” Danny almost growled his last words.  
“What are you two talking about?” Kono interrupted them confused. Instead of answering, both men shared a long glance with each other. It was Steve who filled Kono in, setting the magnifier down again.

“The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division - that's what they are talking about."  
"What?"  
"S.H.I.E.L.D., Kono. Fucking S.H.I.E.L.D.”


	2. Tender you go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. Gosh. You guys. Oh my.  
> I am completly overwhelmed by the number of hits and kudos and subscribers and just... wow.  
> You definitely motivated me to work on the second chapter way faster than I imagined possible.  
> Just thank you! ♥
> 
> Also, I forgot to mention that I'm searching for a native speaker as a beta!
> 
> Poison helps me out with the plot and all that stuff but I'm afraid I'll need some help with word choices and grammar and COMMA PLACEMENT! (How does it even work in English? Sometimes, I feel like it's the complete opposite of how we place commas in German. But then I would have discovered a rule that actually makes some sense so that can't be it...)
> 
> If you're interested, feel free to contact me in any way you'd like.  
> (If your prefer to use Tumblr here is a link: http://the-pudding-is-a-lie.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Have fun reading!
> 
> \- The Pudding

As usual, the harsh smell of latex hovered in every single room overlaid by a breeze of fresh lemon. It was always lemon. Sometimes he wondered if the use of lemon scented soap was compulsory in medical facilities, if there was a rule against odorless brands. Even the strongest sanitizers seemed to reek of chemicals with a lemonlike note.  
Nevertheless, his sentimental attachment to this particular smell was somewhat ridiculous. As was the way he tended to associate _being alive_ with it.

“On a scale from one to ten?”  
“Three.”

Doctor Riggs, who prodded relentlessly at his shoulder, raised her eyebrows while she continued to press her thumbs into his joint. Obviously, she wasn't even close to being convinced by his answer. In fact, grunting the number between gritted teeth revealed his answer clearly as a lie, but they both knew she could only acknowledge what he said. His intonation was a completely different matter.

“Four,” he conceded reluctant at an especially nasty squeeze. The doctor proceeded unimpressed while he gave a little huff at the pain tearing at his shoulder. A six would have been accurate, they both knew it. But anything higher than five meant no active duty for at least another week and he couldn't have that. Again, they both knew it. Conveying his stubbornness with a meaningful glare he waited for Doctor Riggs to acknowledge her defeat. After pressing her knuckles harshly into some protesting muscles but not achieving anymore than a quiet growl from the back of his throat she lowered her hands finally. She seemed very displeased.

“Honestly, I've never thought another agent could be as unreasonable and exhausting as Specialist Barton, especially not you but-”  
“Am I fit for active duty or am I not?” he interrupted her scolding which earned him another disapproving look while he dressed back in his shirt and jacket, knotting his tie neatly.

“Your are... But keep it light and simple. Doing paperwork in your office would be a recommended start.” The doctor's voice became sharp, reminding him why she had been the only one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical staff who could have taken on members of Strike Team Delta so many years ago.  
And who had come out on top every single time.

Neither Barton nor Romanoff nor he himself had ever been easy patients but there was no force on earth that could mess with this small, wide as high and fierce woman standing in front of him. A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Before New York, Doctor Riggs would have gotten her will and he'd have done as he was told. However, he was a changed man now. And he had a mission to bring to an end.  
“Thank you, Doctor.”

She signed the papers stating his clearance for duty with an unhappy expression. When he reached out for them, she didn't let them go immediately. Instead she leveled a further glare at him.  
“We don't want to lose you again,” she said sternly “So take care of yourself, Agent Coulson.”  
A few moments of silence passed between them until he gave a short nod, took the papers and tugged them away in the inside pocket of his jacket.

“I will.”

After finishing his mission, he might reconsider her words.

~

His own check-ups wrapped up, Phil headed from Doctor Riggs office a few floors upwards. The same mixed smell of lemon and latex that was present in the whole building wafted around him even stronger when the elevator's doors opened with a soft swishing noise. Slowly, Phil stepped into the bright hallway and turned to his right. Passing different rooms, some empty except for sleeping patients, some filled up to the brim with fussing nurses, stressed doctors and wounded agents, he made his way down the corridor. With practiced ease he stepped aside for hurrying people a few times, just saving his feet from getting rolled over with carts, beds or gurneys at the last second.  
S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical facilities were always a chaotic mess but lives were saved and that was all that counted.

Arriving at the open standing door that led to the room two of his agents occupied, Phil stopped in its frame and let his gaze wander from the large windows to the beds positioned at the walls. Pale and unmoving Ward and May lay upon crisp, white sheets, blankets pulled up to their shoulders, hiding almost all of the bandages they were still covered in. May seemed to have fallen asleep recently, but Ward's eyes were open and fixed on FitzSimmons and Skye. All three of them were seated by the side of his bed, bruised and battered, backs directed to the door, chatting quiet, but still animatedly with each other. Still no traces of survival instinct concerning the technical part of his new team then, Phil noticed with a small quirk of his lips. He'd have to get them repeat basic survival training over and over again till at least a few things stuck with them. Later though, when none of them looked like the walking dead anymore, all injuries were healed and Ward was strong enough to lead the exercises.

It'd been three weeks already since their unfortunate encounter with a large group of drug producers and their henchmen they had surveyed for almost four months prior. The second they knew enough about those people, Phil had requested the support of a well-trained Strike Team and shared his plan with them. His team's task had been to startle them, to lure them out of their hideout right into reach of the Strike Team. An easy assignment - if Strike Team Sigma had been close enough to step in fast and immediately prevent close contact between his people and all those armed thugs as planned. But their location had been chosen poorly, too far away from possible access positions. It had been such a major mistake that had enabled the head of the whole trafficker ring to escape and above that; it had almost cost Ward's and May's lives. Phil still waited for an explanation from the field officer who had been in charge.  
Wincing, he curled his hands into fists by his sides and stepped back from the room without making his presence known to anyone. Fuming with rage was no state he ever wanted one of his agents to see him in. He could check on them later.

Retreating to the opposite wall, he leaned heavily against it and took a few calming breaths. Since his recovery from the stab wound he got irritated more easily and worked hard not to let his usual front of comprehensive competence slip. Sometimes he wondered if Loki left anything else within him apart from a gaping hole in his chest and a taste of death. He had no use for the pseudo-god's bad temper to linger inside him or whatever may have gotten transferred by the spear that had pierced his ribcage thoroughly. Phil gritted his teeth in disgust. This could turn out so very bad.

“Coffee?”

Startled out of his thoughts, Phil spun around and came face to face with a paper cup. Steam curled upwards into the air, thinned out and disappeared, leaving room for Jasper Sitwell's round face. The bald man looked knowingly at Phil over the thin frames of his glasses, waggling the cup in front of his face for wordless emphasis. A second cup was carefully balanced on top of a small tablet computer in Jasper's other hand. Sighing, Phil took the coffee and turned back to watch his team through the open door again. FitzSimmons tried to explain their modifications of some new toy they tinkered with since a few days, Skye quipped in with some bad puns every now and then, while Ward seemed to not even try to follow their conversation, just smiled silently to himself and fought to keep his eyes open. May slept surprisingly peaceful.  
All of them gathered in medical... It was his fault. He shouldn't have let somebody else assign a Strike Team to their mission. He should have selected their support on his own, should have lead the Strike Team himself instead of trusting another field officer.

“In case you forgot; you're supposed to take a sip, try and fail to not make a face at it and thank me excessively despite its awfulness.” Jasper interrupted his musings once again by tapping at the paper cup clutched forgotten between Phil's fingers. Puzzled, he turned his eyes down at it, before he leveled his gaze at the smaller man's face.  
“Please tell me you came here to hand me some orders involving finishing my mission.”  
“Actually, you're assigned to a new one.”  
“What?”

Jasper had the decency to look uncomfortable in his own skin while he shuffled his feet a bit. Delaying his explanation, he took a small sip from his own cup and grimaced strongly at it afterwards. Phil decided to dump his untouched coffee unceremoniously into the trash can of the next cart a nurse rolled past them.

“Listen, Phil, the group you had to survey; We thought those people were nothing more than ordinary R.A.G.E. producers. You weren't supposed to come upon their leader! And when we figured out who was part of the group your team was assigned to, we tried to warn you immediately.” Jasper paused, clearly at loss for words to continue his explanation.  
“But unfortunately, you were too late and two of my agents got almost killed. Excellent work, Agent Sitwell,” Phil snorted. His hand, that was still clutching at the paper cup like a lifeline, trembled slightly. Mistakes like that didn't happen before New York. He'd checked and double checked every single detail, every information provided. He became too lax.

It wouldn't happen again.

“We based our assessment on intel the Strike Team sent to Hawaii gathered. When we compared information of the neutralized group with yours, everything matched. From their choice of location to every part of their equipment. Trust me, there were no signs of abnormality. Those people and their hideout seemed to be meant for producing and protecting their stock of the R.A.G.E. drug. Only that and nothing more”, Jasper carried on in defense of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s actions, ignoring Phil's words like they were never muttered. “If we had any idea the man who invented the drug's formula would be there - along with an enormous number of deserted army rangers - we would have sent someone else in.”

“Thanks”, Phil replied drily. He knew Jasper was right, though. His team was not ready for tasks this big, battles so intense. The painful proof was gathered in the hospital room across the hallway.

“Stop worrying about that guy, he's not your responsibility. Agent Romanoff was sent to catch him. Meanwhile, you will fly to Hawaii.” Phil's eyes widened at the statement and he turned around fully, facing Jasper with a deep frown.  
“You just told me that a Strike Team was sent to Hawaii to deal with the local part of the R.A.G.E. organization. So what will be my mission on those islands?”  
“The traffickers are dealt with, yes. The Strike Team is back on base since five weeks. But Clean Up doesn't report anymore, radio silence started ten days ago. Director Fury assumes the worst case so he decided to send his best man.” It could have sounded like flattery if Fury wasn't above sweet talking anyone, especially his own friends.

Sighing lowly, Phil used the moment a nurse came by with a cart to finally get rid of the awful brew Jasper had the nerves to call coffee. Turning back and raising his brows at him, Phil questioned his task. “What's so special about a Clean Up Team to make me find them right after I've just gotten clearance for active duty?” He didn't even ask how Fury knew of the signed papers still sitting in his pocket. Submitting them was probably redundant anyway.

“The work on Hawaii consisted of locating storage places for R.A.G.E., confiscating and destroying the supply...”  
“Nothing really complicated.”  
“Yes. That's why it was decided that eight agents fresh out of training were enough for the task.”

Phil winced at the disclosure. Maybe he shouldn't have been so fast to throw away the coffee cup. A gulp of something strong would be nice now. Instead he leaned back against the wall, pressed his palms flat on his thighs. Eight baby agents presumably dead. A R.A.G.E. stock of random size still circulating on Hawaii. And an unknown number of already addicted citizens. The consequences could be disastrous.

“Great news, Jasper. Anything else?”  
“You will have to cooperate with the local task force.”

Annoyed, Phil closed his eyes for a moment, trying to block out Jasper's ongoing briefing – it was a _fucking briefing in the hallway of medical_ , who were they kidding? - about the Governor’s task force that was granted full immunity and means to clean up the islands. “We don't know for sure, but if our agents are dead as feared than Five-0 will work on this already. And it will be impossible to exclude them by now-”  
“Tell me whom I'll be dealing with,” Phil demanded and Jasper complied.

“Hawaii Five-0 is founded and run by Lieutenant Commander Steven J. McGarrett, United States Navy Reserves, former member of Seal Team Nine, who returned to Hawaii after his father was murdered. At the crime scene he met his current partner, Detective Sergeant Daniel Williams. Williams originally worked as a police Detective in New Jersey and moved to Hawaii to remain close to his daughter, Grace Williams. Further team members are Detective Lieutenant Chin Ho Kelly, wrongly accused of corruption but his name was cleared lately, and his cousin Officer Kono Kalakaua. She graduated HPD Academy two years ago.” Jasper's enumeration was accompanied by a picture slide show on the tablet he'd carried with him. “Rumors circulate about violations concerning the proper handling of suspects since the very beginning of Five-0. As it seems, those declined at least a bit after McGarrett arrested his father's murderer who got killed in prison afterwards.”

Scrutinizing the various pictures of the special task force members, Phil nodded along to Jasper's words to let him know that he was listening. Only when Jasper came to speak about the team traveling with Phil, he stopped and tensed suddenly. Lifting his head slowly, his gaze roamed from the tiny screen up to the door trough which a sudden laughter erupted – sometimes Skye's puns weren't as bad as they all feared – back to Jasper's face. His features were set in a tight frown as he returned Phil's stare silently.  
“Care to repeat that?”

“In consideration of the injuries the Bus Team has suffered, you'll be working with a new team. Or rather an old one. Captain Rogers and Specialist Barton will come with you.” Phil's mouth sagged open in dismay, then snapped shut violently, rattling his teeth. His mask of calm competence slipped away rapidly as bewilderment hit him without warning. Silently, he gaped at Jasper while he tried to collect and gather the thoughts running frantically through his minds, circling around each other.

“Impossible...” Phil nearly chocked on the only word he managed to ground out between his teeth. They couldn't get assigned to him, not anymore. He wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D.'s liaison with the Avenger's Initiative any longer. That duty ended with his death and wasn't revived with his recovery. They didn't even know he was alive! This couldn't happen, Jasper had to be joking.

“With the current circumstances in mind, Director Fury decided it was time to let agents down to clearance level four know of your survival,” the agent told him firmly nonetheless, “All member of the Avengers, even Agent Romanoff and Agent Barton, are rated level five concerning this matter, so the new order includes every Avenger. You'll be working with Captain Rogers and Specialist Barton. And that's an order Fury decided not to be up for discussion.”

As those words slowly sunk into his mind, Phil nodded curtly, even though he was clueless about a proper reaction to all this. After months and months of keeping his recovery a secret, after moments of shameful weakness, when he had thought about breaking orders, about leaving hints for the Avengers, to let them know of his well-being, after considering _betraying Nick_ multiple times, the man himself ended the whole charade without even talking to Phil.  
It left him flailing.

“Oh and Fury wanted me to let you know that you'd better not dare to freak out. You're supposed to pull your goddam shit together – his word's not mine. He wanted me to tell you that,” Jasper said evenly, before he took hold of the tablet again and tugged it back under his arm. For a few seconds it seemed like he considered to go, attend to other pressing matters. Instead, he grasped Phil's elbow cautiously whose whole body seized up at the touch immediately.  
“I know you are mad and you have every right to be so-” he started but Phil couldn't listen to him, not now, not with all that disgust seething inside him, searching for a way to burst out into the open.

“Keeping my survival a secret so long _didn't achieve anything_!” Phil snarled in anger, withdrawing his arm from Jasper's fingers violently. “How am I going to explain that? I have to work with Rogers and Barton, two men who won't trust me the slightest. I have to work with someone who will feel betrayed by one of his... of his closest friends, Jasper. We were goddam friends before...” _And maybe even a bit more than that._ Blinking at the other agent rapidly, Phil tried to calm himself. None of this was supposed to happen and snapping at Jasper wouldn't change any of it.

“You followed orders. Barton will understand.”

Phil gave a rude snort at that but kept quiet otherwise. Maybe there was indeed a chance Clint would accept that Phil's loyalty and trust in Fury exceeded their friendship. If not... Well, the journey to Hawaii wasn't meant to be a nice vacation trip anyway.

“Bear in mind that we'd miss this admittedly unconventional but nevertheless brilliant new team of yours if you had continued your work with the Avengers Initiative instead of flying around in that posh plane. Who named it Bus for that matter? It's a bit misleading”, Jasper spoke noticeable trying for a more blithe atmosphere. Phil replied with nothing more than an angry rumble, knowing Jasper said the truth but not willing to admit it after so many massive revelations. Once more, his life was going to change fundamentally.

"Well, then you should bear in mind that I'm _fucking pissed_ about the whole mess." Phil clenched his hands against his thighs, trying to control their trembling while hissing at Jasper. "Feel free to tell Fury those are my words and not yours."

Not awaiting an answer, Phil pushed himself off the wall and left Jasper behind. Without a doubt, a file with further information and instructions was already sitting on his office desk, atop a handwritten note, stating that submitting his clearance for duty was unnecessary and a waste of time by this point. He'd do it anyway before packing his bags and getting on his way to Hawaii.  
Phil grimaced slightly at the thought.

He'd never really liked the beach.


	3. I'm watching you breathing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, ok, this took way longer than I thought. Firstly, Clint's really hard to write for me... Secondly, I have so much work to do for university, it's ridiculous!  
> Please note, this chapter isn't beta read by Poison yet so this is my usual crap written down over the last weeks. And I just don't know.  
> Just let me know your ideas for improvement! All comments are welcome!  
> I'm also still searching for an English native speaker who'd like to beta this whole thing for me. Feel free to contact me via Tumblr (http://the-pudding-is-a-lie.tumblr.com/) or any other possible way!
> 
> Thank you for your attention, enjoy reading.
> 
>  
> 
> \- The Pudding

Uniforms were spread all over the white bed sheets, accompanied by S.H.I.E.L.D. issued shirts, sweatpants, even socks with the eagle emblem stichted into them. Some of them dangled over the bed's edges, threatening to fall down on the floor to join the tangled mess of underwear, boots and sweaters laying there. Unceremoniously, Clint had thrown everything from his drawers over his shoulder, not really caring if it landed on his bed or the floor. The prospect of having to fold his clothes into neat piles again actually calmed him, while he rummaged through his wardrobe aimlessly. He just had to keep his hands busy, had to focus on preparing his departure to Hawaii. Anything to keep his mind from wandering where it shouldn't go.

A huff excaped him as he opened another door and came upon a bunch of suits, dress shirts and polished shoes sitting neatly in a row. There were other clothes too, jeans, henleys, jackets; all of them without S.H.I.E.L.D.'s logo – _normal people clothes_ how Tony called them. Like he knew anything about normal people.

"Jarvis?" After weeks of living in the tower, Clint still called out to the ceiling with slight wariness. "Can you tell Tony that I appreciate his gifts but that I actually earn money on my own? If I think I need new clothes I'm gonna buy them myself - I'm not a goddamn charity case!"  
"Mr. Stark anticipated your reaction, Agent Barton. He instructed me to deliver a voice message as soon as you found his purchase," the A.I. responded as polite as ever, "Do you want me to play it now or later?"  
Clint sighed heavily while he shut the wardrobe's door. "Not now... Probably never," he grumbled towards the ceiling. There was no use in arguing with Tony Stark. Never had been. It was easier to go with silent agreement and let the man buy him clothes if that was what Tony wanted to do.

"As you wish, Agent Barton," Jarvis's British accented voice answered and the room fell silent again except for the shuffling noises Clint caused as he continued to dig around his drawers. He didn't really search for anything, just threw whatever he deemed useful in the direction of the growing clutter behind him. One of the perks of living in Tony's ridiculous tower: there was so much space to mess up and no one threw a fit about it as long as everyone's muddle stayed on their own floor and wasn't scattered elsewhere.

In retrospect, Clint didn't even know how all of them ended up in the tower. Tony just collected and gathered them over time, gave each their own floor, in Bruce's case even an own lap. He showed them the way to the gym and range, where the common area was and informed them that Saturday nights had been declared dinner and movie nights. Everyone was excepted to show up, no excuses were allowed, no compromise could be negotiated. Every argument had been proven invalid by four simple words: Tony's tower, Tony's rules. Even though the tower somehow ended up to be known and called the Avengers Tower lately. At least since Natasha had suddenly showed up one day without a word of explanation and just took a seat next to Clint at one movie night, proceeding to watch _Sky Fall_ silently. Tony hadn't been able to convince her of staying with them in countless conversations before, but a floor was still reserved for her and no one dared to ask any questions when she made it hers.  
Thus, the Avengers had been brought together under the same roof again.

With the exception of one presence missing.

Clint ran a hand over his face like it could swipe away the sudden feeling of tiredness. Slowly, he turned around to face the heap of clothes piling up on his bed. It was too much to take with him by far, so he sat down and started sorting through it. As opposed to his usual efficient quickness, he tended to each and every piece with slow care, folded it neatly and stacked it carefully into piles arranged by color, setting aside things he actually wanted to bring to Hawaii. A few sets of uniforms, a bunch of shirts, some sweatpants. Even a pair of swimming trunks fell into his hands and after running his fingertips thoughtfully over the small embroidered eagle wings he tossed them over to the stuff he'd take with him. Maybe they turned out to be useful when he searched for an excuse to withdraw from the agent in charge of this mission.

Provided that Phil still hated sand just as much as he always had.

Despite himself, the corner of his mouth tugged upwards in a sad attempt of a smile as he remembered their mission at the Côte d'Ivoire. It had been hilarious in so many ways. He'd never forget the various faces the usually stoic Agent Coulson pulled at him, complaining non-stop in a surprisingly whiny tone about grains of sand conquering places they weren't meant to be. All the while, he'd dismantled his gun, cleared it from specks of sand and put it back together without even glancing down at his own hands once. Those calm hands, moving sure with confidence no matter what.

Another sigh escaped his throat and he bit his lips fiercely as soon as it reached his ears. He wasn't supposed to sit here and indulge himself in memories of moments were all masks had fallen away and all that was left was just... them. Phil and Clint. Sitting in a shitty hotel room, sharing the cramped space of a couch that smelled faintly of rotten fish and laughing softly about some absurd ideas of how to keep the sand out of their weapons. The ones Phil had come up with had been even more ridiculous than Clint's...  
But those days were long over. Now he had to pack his stuff, had to get prepared for his new mission. He couldn't afford to let his thoughts move in circles around Phil, Phil who should be dead, _who had been dead_ but it fact didn't stay so. A man too dutiful to leave this world behind with unfinished tasks at his hands. Too dutiful to let Clint know of his survival.

Grabbing one of the piles of shirts and stuffing it back into its rightful drawer with more force than strictly necessary, Clint tried hard to not let the sickening feeling of worthlessness consume him. Rationally considered, he knew he'd done the same. He'd followed orders and kept quiet. But he'd been so very tempted to let Phil know! And in the end, he knew, he'd given in to his own wishes.

Of both of them, Clint had always been the lesser man.

Well, maybe Phil even had imagined a situation like this; his status revealed and a mission that brought him and Clint together once more. But had he thought about informing Clint beforehand? Had he considered acting against his orders? Had he pondered about the first words he'd tell Clint when they met again? 

Probably not. None of it.

Phil had always been in control of everything, including himself. He'd never allow himself to soften this much. Or to indulge in any not work related thoughts involving his own agents. No, not Phil. Even though there had been something between them, a spark of fascination, some unvoiced attraction pulling them in, making them dance around each other in the most ridiculous ways since the day of Clint's so called recruitment. Known as the day Phil was sent to kill him, shot him in the leg instead and dragged him off to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters insisting on training him because of whatever potential he saw in some broken circus freak turned petty criminal. And when the insubordinate archer didn't stop smartmouthing his handlers, Phil saw through his feigned bravado and noticed his insecurity, his lack of trust in S.H.I.E.L.D. and the agents surrounding him. And Phil decided to take him on, was the first to really listen to him. Clint got transferred to Phil's team and it had worked out right from the beginning. They had been good together, one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best teams and Clint owed Phil _everything_. His life, his job, the trust people started to place in him. Even the addition of Natasha to their team. Strong, willful Natasha who broke Loki's control over his mind, who brought Clint back and who still trusted him with her life. Although he had been the one to lead the attack on the Helicarrier.

He'd been the one who enabled Loki to stab Phil.

A familiar ache started to throb in his head. Clint tried to breathe calmly through his mouth while he squeezed a few more shirts forcefully into the already full drawer. His range of vision narrowed down on his hands slowly, but steadily. He felt out of his own skin, like it had been ripped off him in one harsh tug. As if he stood behind himself and watched passively over his own shoulder how his fingers kept pressing down on fabric that absolutely wouldn't fit into the drawer anymore. It was just a tad too much.

With pinched eyebrows Clint sat back on his haunches, pulling his arms back. Shirt after shirt spilled from the drawer in front of him. With hollow eyes he stared at the mess for a while before he gave into the painful ache and buried his face in both of his hands. It seemed easier to just let the guilt overwhelm him as it seeped into his heart again, spread through his whole body and planted a sick feeling in his stomach. Shame throbbed almost painfully in his chest and crept forward with every beat of his heart as he curled in on himself. His breath got caught in his throat for a few moments when he tried to hold back some pathetic noises with clenched jaws.

How did all of this even happen...?

Clint remembered what he'd done in the early stages of Loki's control over him. He knew he had spent long days fighting the painful force prying into his mind, tugging at his core relentlessly and stripping away every shred of his self-control bit by bit. He had known he would lose. Still he'd struggled against Loki's control and resisted for as long as he could. His memories of Stuttgart were blurred and twisted after Loki had finally managed to overwhelm him. And then there was nothing when it came to the attack on the Helicarrier. Clint had seen the video footage, had seen himself killing his fellow agents without hesitation, smoothing Loki's way that led to Phil's end. 

But he couldn't remember any of it.

What he could remember was the denial he lived in the first days after Tasha told him of Phil's death. And the desperation when it finally sunk in, when he realized what it meant. He had gotten angry - at Loki, at Phil, at life in general. But especially at himself. After about a week, his fuming rage had been replaced by deep but restless exhaustion, a weird mess of feelings he hadn't been able to untangle. Next he knew was the sight of Natasha standing in front of him, suddenly showing up unannounced like she always did. She'd just watched him silently with a bland expression on her face and only the slight downward curve of her lips and the tension in her shoulders had betrayed her own carefully hidden grief. Well, maybe the bottle she'd been holding in her hands had been another, more obvious hint. Clint hadn't felt his usual urge to make a smart-assed comment about it. He'd just taken the bottle as silently as it was offered.

She'd brought him vodka. Cheap, terrible vodka that kicked in hard and fast. It had been perfect, the hangover the next morning even better. Afterward, he'd felt composed enough to pull himself together, leave his room with Natasha by his side and take on life again - even though it would never be the same again.  
But he'd thought that he'd owed Phil at least that much.

None of that felt real anymore, though. Like everything he'd done, thought and felt had been a lie. One of the many Fury used to built S.H.I.E.L.D.'s work upon. Just like Phil's death.  
Clint didn't even have any strength left to get mad at Fury, to curse the man and his preference of handling things in secret. As much as Clint wanted to, he wasn't able to scream in frustration about being kept in the dark for so long or to voice his relief of Phil's survival in any way. All he could do was to take in a ragged breath while he pressed his face harder into his hands until the pressure of his fingers against his closed eyelids felt almost painful. The lingering ache soothed him more than it should have.

“I didn't know it either,” a soft voice addressed him gently. “None of us did.”

Clint managed to drag his hands from his face after pressing the tips of his fingers harshly against his eyes once more. Since he still choked on almost every draft of air his lungs desperately tried to suck in, he only gave a curt nod as a sign of acknowledgment. There was some rustling behind him, a low sigh that covered up his own sniffle. Steve always did that; causing some low noises Clint could pretend would overlay his own sounds that betrayed how close to tears and a moderate break-down he really was. Even though he knew Steve could still hear every breath he struggled with, he felt like this moment of weakness went unnoticed by anyone when he straightened his back and got up to his feet. He left the shirts on the floor for now and turned to face the bed. Steve was perched on its edge, eyes cast down and fixed on the clothes strewn around, giving Clint some more time to compose himself. The archer smiled faintly.

It had taken Steve some difficult weeks to learn how to handle Clint and his grief but with an endless amount of patience and persistence he'd figured it out. While Natasha may have set him back on track and put everything behind herself by getting shitfaced drunk with him, Steve had stayed surprisingly close to him whereas everyone else avoided him like the plague. First, Clint had thought that Captain America himself wanted to keep an eye on him. But as time went by and the Avengers got comfortable in Tony's tower Clint had realized that Steve was in fact the only one who could really understand him. Who tried to help him gently trough his mourning like actual normal people did.

“No need to check up on me, 'm fine,” he grumbled nevertheless.

“Huh-? Oh no, I came here because I was wondering whether we should assume we'll have time to go for a swim or not. But since you packed those,” Steve held up Clint's pair of swimming trunks with a slight grin. “I think my question is answered.”

They regarded each with a long gaze, none of them batting an eyelash at the other man's bullshit as silenced stretched between them. Finally, Clint let out soft huff and averted his eyes, fixing them on his own hands and watching his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He opened his mouth, trying to utter some more meaningless phrases of reassurance but lately he found himself lost for words more often than not in Steve's presences. Especially, when those words were just some blunt lies. Pressing his lips into a thin line he expanded his almost stubborn silence as he frowned down at some holes in his shirt's hem. He kept fingering them absently.

“Clint, listen please. I don't... I-” A long sigh escaped Steve and when Clint glanced up to him, he could see him rubbing one hand over his face in an helpless gesture. Never before had he seen Steve at a loss, not knowing how to phrase his thoughts and Clint felt sick for tiring him so much, could feel the tips of his ears burning with shame. He knew it was a bad habit to always surround himself with men so much better than himself. He just didn't seem able to stop himself from doing so.

“I'm sorry for being a waste of your time. I'll try to hold myself back in Hawaii,” he had at least the good grace to apologize.

“Clint, no – Don't do that, Clint, just... It's alright. Just come here. Please,” Steve interrupted him by standing up and reaching for him with one hand when Clint tried to turn away with the intend to take care of the shirts still laying by the wardrobe. Steve caught Clint's wrist in a strong grip, squeezing it for the span of a heartbeat before loosening his hold a fraction. It was enough to get Clint to face him again, wide-eyed and hard-breathing. The archer couldn't hide the obvious fear overcoming him whenever he thought about the weeks laying ahead of them; not anymore, not when Steve was so close to him. Standing almost toe to toe with his fellow Avenger, Clint could feel every bit of false bravado falling away from him, baring his worries and anxieties for the world to see. Trying to squirm his hand free of Steve's fingers, Clint sought out a way to get some distance between them.

“It's alright,” Steve repeated softly, closing his arms around the smaller man and drawing him against his chest. Dumbfounded, Clint let himself be pressed against strong pecs, reaching up with his own hands by instinct, sliding them across the wide shoulders and holding onto them. He couldn't remember receiving a gentler or more comforting hug in his entire life. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, rested his cheek against Steve's shoulder and didn't say anything when he could feel tentative lips brushing over his hair, his forehead. The feeling of safety, of home enveloped him with Steve's arms and light kisses. A long missed warmth unfurled pleasantly in his stomach. For a few seconds, Clint let bliss replace the bitterness of guilt, even though he knew he'd feel even sicker about it just a minute later. But for those short moments, he indulged himself in the illusion that he could deserve this. That he could deserve _Steve_. He almost laughed at the ridiculousness of his own thought.

_He didn't deserve anything._

Not after what he'd done to the people who trusted him. Not after what happened to Phil just because of him. Clint was unworthy of all those warm feelings churning inside him. Unworthy of every bit of Steve's attention, of the man himself. And Clint knew that very well.

“No. Please don't...” he refused apologetically when he felt Steve shifting carefully and interpreted those subtle movements for what they were. His own voice sounded so laughable small in his own ears, but Steve didn't comment on it, only stopped searching for Clint's lips with his own and held him even closer to his chest. This way, Clint could feel every expanse of the big rib cage, every breath that was drawn in and released again. And he knew, soon he'd see Phil doing the very same; he'd watch him breathing, he'd see him standing upright, head held high proudly, jaw set tightly with a stubbornness that defeated death. He'd hear him stating orders, calm and competent as always. And maybe, maybe he'd see him crack one of those rare, secret smiles Clint often pretended were reserved for him alone.

“Thank you,” he whispered into the soft fabric of Steve's shirt.


	4. For the last time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I feel like complete and utter trash. This chapter is not read by Poison either. I just... Ugh. Someone help?  
> Comments, kudos, everything is welcome. I feel so unsure about all this by now...  
> Still, please enjoy reading and thank you for your attention.
> 
>  
> 
> \- The Pudding

A crowd of happily chatting tourists headed for the exit; dragging suitcases close to their heels, pulling phones from pockets to inform others of their arrival. Amidst the steady flow of people all members of Hawaii Five-0 stood calmly, waiting side by side as solid as a rock, not caring about the annoyed glances those who had to sidestep them threw in their direction. Obviously, S.H.I.E.L.D. had informed the task force about the date and time of the arrival of their agents. But judged by the sudden wideness of Officer Kalakaua's eyes and her open standing mouth no one had bothered to add that Captain America himself would be meeting them at Honolulu airport.

A subtle tension stiffened McGarrett's shoulders as he stretched out his hand to greet both Avengers politely but noticeable distanced. His lack of enthusiasm wasn't really surprising, neither was the caution his whole task force regarded S.H.I.E.L.D.'s support team with. Williams narrowed his eyes at the Captain, who towered at least 5 inches above him, while Kalakaua scrutinized Barton's indifferent expression and deliberate calm posture. Only Kelly didn't seem to be bothered by the awkward introduction and meaningless phrases that were exchanged around him in pressed voices.

Phil let his eyes drift away from the group back to the conveyor in front of him. His luggage passed him for the fourth or fifth time already when he pulled himself together and reached for it. He'd wasted enough minutes surveying the small gathering, it was time to join them, to meet his team. To face Clint once again.

It couldn't be that difficult.

A tiny huff escaped him as he lifted his suitcase up, the sudden additional weight putting a strain on his arm and chest. A little souvenir from the R.A.G.E. operation that had swept away his new team to medical and brought him into this situation. Well, Doctor Riggs had warned him beforehand but some restrictions of his range of motion would hardly matter for this assignment; Not with those four fit, well-trained task force members and two of the most valued S.H.I.E.L.D. assets who were still waiting for him, not knowing which plane he was on, only that he had taken a different flight to Hawaii. Every other information had been classified. Dragging his suitcase behind him, Phil headed for the little group, overly aware of the harsh clicking sounds his shoes made on the polished floor and the slightly crumpled state of his suit. He couldn't wait to change clothes.

After joining the others and addressing the Five-0 members with a terse greeting and curt nods, Phil let his eyes glance sideways for a moment, taking his time to acknowledge both Avengers the same way. The impersonal approach seemed to upset Clint, whose loose stance stiffened when he clasped his hand behind his back as soon as he returned Phil's nod with a jerk. Even the shades he was wearing couldn't hide the scowl on his face and Phil had to muster up all his control not to flinch at the sight. Words got caught in throats when Five-0 picked up on the growing tension, the way Clint and Phil carefully avoided exchanging more words than strictly necessary, how their postures tensed and shifted until they were carefully turned away from each other as much as possible without appearing rude.

Nobody seemed to know what should be said or done, confusion spreading around until Steve clapped his hands once for attention. He smiled politely. "As far as I know, a house has been rented for us. Logistics send you the address? Perfect. Can you take us there? We'll take care of getting a rental car as soon as possible but right now-”  
"We can get there later," Clint interrupted suddenly, speaking out for the first time since their landing. "We should head to HQ and get started. The sooner we're done the less people will die." Shouldering his duffel bag for emphasis, Clint peeked sideways, searching for affirmation from Steve and Phil despite his apparent self-assurance. He deflated ever so slightly but still noticeably, when Steve shook his head gently.

“We've been on the plane for almost twelve hours. Let's get some rest and face this whole mess first thing in the morning.” Phil almost laughed out loud at those soft spoken words, remembering how often he'd told Clint to take a break and how he'd only ever gotten a smart remark in return. Clint had never cared much for resting when work had to be done and Phil expected him to reject the offer as strongly as ever. Instead he threw another glance in Steve's direction and agreed silently with a nod. Admittedly, to hold back his further objections Clint had to grind his teeth so hard Phil could see the muscles of his jaw flex unevenly. Nevertheless, he kept quiet, only adjusted the straps over his shoulder with a tiny shrug. It was nothing compared to the usual fuss, to the way Phil always had to force him, to sometimes actually _blackmail_ Clint to get him relax for a few hours on a mission! It was probably just one of many things that had changed since Clint started working for the Avengers Initiative, since New York happened, since Phil couldn't stand his ground against Loki...

After clenching his fists by his sides and swallowing heavily, Phil raised his chin a bit, reached for his own luggage again and followed Five-0 with wide steps, almost strutted along the airport to the exit.

He knew, he shouldn't feel defeated, he had no right to be disappointed in any way for he was the one to mess up their friendship for good. He was the one who had left the Initiative and now Steve seemed to have taken a leading role in Clint's live instead. Phil could accept that. He could be pleased for Clint, could be happy that the archer had found someone he trusted, someone who'd supported him when Phil hadn't been able to. Or rather had decided not to on Fury's behalf.

Phil could be content with not being needed anymore.

He just had to start believing that himself.

A lump formed in his throat as he exited the airport and squinted his eyes against the sun. Searching for his sunglasses provided him a good excuse to not meet anyone's eyes straight on or to participate in the compulsory discussion about car seats and who should accompany whom. Unsurprisingly, Officer Kalakaua seemed determined to give Steve a ride and Phil couldn't blame her for refusing to desist on her sole claim on the Captain any time soon. He really couldn't.  
Steve just shrugged almost sheepishly and smiled at Clint, patted his shoulder apologetically, before he followed the cousins to their car. That way Clint and Phil ended up standing in front of a sleek Camaro, waiting for McGarrett and Williams to finish a battle of wills entirely fought with silent stares and occasionally raised eyebrows. Williams seemed to lose at some point, handing the keys from his pocket over to his partner with an annoyed sigh and a grimace that was close to a pout. Phil decided to neither comment nor judge this scene.

Wordlessly, Clint tucked their luggage into the trunk only tensing slightly when his fingers accidentally brushed along Phil's cuff when he took hold of the older man's suitcase. There wasn't even any skin to skin contact, but obviously being that close to Phil was a rather unpleasant and awkward experience by itself for Clint. Phil felt a twinge of regret seeping through his core, however, he turned away promptly, not even muttering one of all those apologies that seemed to be stuck in his head. He wasn't in the position to share his thoughts and feelings with Clint anymore, not if it wasn't relevant to their job.

Phil restrained himself just barely from rubbing his hands over his face. Since openly showing his frustration and uncertainty about personal matters wouldn't help anyone, he squared his shoulders, opened the car's door and sat down in the back seat. He could do this. He was Phil Coulson, agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., the director's good eye and in charge of this mission. He would wrap it up just as fast and efficient as everyone expected of him; like the professional he was. He could do this one more time. And maybe afterwards, it was time to think about leaving S.H.I.E.L.D. once and for all, to start something new.

"What is it, D?" McGarrett's voice interrupted Phil's musings. The man sounded more amused than actually worried, so Phil wasn't really surprised about the gruff tone of Williams' voice when he answered: "Nothing."  
"It's never nothing with you. Tell me what's wrong."  
"Nothing's wrong except for the usual," the detective declared. His tone clearly indicated that he wouldn't bother to elaborate his answer if he wasn't asked to do so. Silence stretched between them for a few moments, McGarrett apparently waiting for Williams to pull himself together and continue speaking. He gave up with an excessive sigh. "Which is?"  
"You driving my car. Which got somehow twisted into a definition of _right_ in your conception of basic interhuman mode of behavior, Steven. But let me tell you, it is still wrong in the general opinion regarding common sense-"  
"Speaking about sense: Sometimes I wonder if you just string words together and hope they do make some," McGarrett interrupted his partner without hesitation, causing another silence during which Williams looked at him pensively before he concluded drily: "Sometimes I wonder if you'd like to be strangled."  
"Oh? Can you even reach my neck?"

At this point, Phil decided to ignore the continuing banter worth of a couple married to each other for at least fifty years. Instead he focused on Clint who sat besides him, arms crossed over his chest, frown firmly in place behind the sunglasses he hadn't bothered to take off. He was tense and stressed, in a completely different mood than the last time they had sat in a car together. A lot had been different when just the two of them were driving all the way down to Mexico. Phil could remember the wide grin on Clint's lips, brightening up his whole face when he had been allowed to drive Lola for a while. It had been ridiculous how happy and content the archer had been for days because he had been trusted with Phil's most precious treasure for some miles. Judged by the way Clint's brow furrowed more and more while he stared intently at McGarrett's headrest in front of him the same memory crossed his mind over and over again.

Phil suppressed the sudden urge to sigh loudly.

He would have talked to Clint ages ago! If there had been any possibility to do so. But there had been always another mission following their previous assignment, all of them demanding professionalism. Even though Fury had decided to not pester his agents with non-fraternization regulations time for discussing personal matters had been limited, expressing feelings altogether impossible for Phil. Currently, Clint's justified anger complicated everything further. And even if he'd been willing to listen to Phil's excuses, they were going to be surrounded by an unfamiliar task force all day long and Steve would be there any other time. Obviously, it was too late to fix anything between them.  
Determined to accomplish the mission without getting anymore distracted by his never changing but still carefully undefined feelings for Clint Barton, Phil turned his eyes forwards.

As soon as the car halted in front of a small, neat house the archer practically jumped out of the door. It merely took him some seconds to grab his luggage as well as Phil's and head off to the front porch, waiting impatiently next to the door. His head was turned in Steve's direction, who took his time to bid goodbye to Kelly and Kalakaua, probably thanking them for the ride, maybe even cracking a joke or two. Phil could hear some soft laughs while he arranged a time for Clint, Steve and himself to get picked up by Williams and McGarrett the next day.

Afterward, the short detective sat down in the passenger seat of his own car without any fuss despite his earlier protest. He actually seemed rather used to let McGarrett handle the driving, maybe it had become some sort of ritual between them, not that Phil cared much for it. He knew beforehand that McGarrett operated better when he was in control of a situation. People like him didn't change much in their regular lives, always occupying a domineering position to be able to keep everyone depending on them safe. Phil could understand this urge very well... Scratching his neck, Phil turned his back to the street, listened to the Camaro speeding off before he stepped closer to the house. The sight of Clint still waiting by the door while staring at Steve with a strained expression left a strange taste in Phil's mouth but he forced himself to not let it effect him otherwise. Hence, he didn't hesitate a mere second, just approached Clint with a stern face.

“Keys are under the flower pot to your right, Barton.”

The archer's full attention snapped to Phil suddenly and for a few moments they just stood there, sizing each other up, neither of them daring to address what needed to be said. The muscles of Clint's forearms flexed as he clenched his hands to fists and for a split second Phil was convinced he'd get punched in the face for his overall inability to handle this awkward reunion like a competent adult. The moment passed though. Nothing happened. Clint only hissed a quiet _Yessir_ before he bend down slowly to retrieve the set of keys from their hiding spot. Throwing another glance over his shoulder, he didn't unlock the door until the other car pulled away and Steve headed toward them finally.

By the time he reached the porch and Clint let them all in, Phil felt basically just as crumpled as his suit looked like.

It was definitely time to change.

~

__

_"I can't believe it!"_

Kono's breathless exclamation was the first thing they heard from the speakers as soon as the call got connected. Her obvious joy was a welcome change from the haunted expression she'd been wearing for days by now. Danny smiled fondly at her whispered _Captain fucking America_ , spoken with such care like the first Avenger might disappear from the island if she cursed too loudly. Behind the wheel Steve grunted unimpressed, earning himself an appraising look from Danny.

 _“Well, I think they're not as bad as we expected. We could have it worse,”_ Chin added, voice sounding a bit faint and absent through the speakers since he had to concentrate on driving. Meanwhile, Kono lost herself in some babbling about the Captain. Danny couldn't help chuckling, propping up his chin with his right hand.

“Far worse,” Steve agreed darkly, his face twisting up in a mixture of a deep frown and an expression that might indicate a fast approaching headache. Danny knew better than to ask for clarification. The only answer he'd gotten would have consisted of a single word: Classified. He hated that word. The laughter died on his tongue as he turned his face a bit to fix his eyes on Steve's strained face.

 _"To be honest, the short one is rather... short. And the other one looks like_ the _personification of a pencil pusher. It'll be dangerous, I hope we don't have to protect those guys later,”_ Kono interjected after calming down a bit.

“The short one has at least four inches on me and is basically as tall as you are,” Danny snorted with a shake of his head, “Don't let looks misguide you. Back in Newark, I worked with a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent once. Her name was Hill and I swear, she'd kicked asses so hard everyone's knees started trembling when she was near, hoping she wouldn't even look at them when she passed by – Actually, Catherine always reminds me of her.”  
_"That's right, Cathe-"_  
"Let's not talk about Cath now. We've got more important issues at our hands," Steve interfered hastily, cutting of Chin abruptly and with unusual harshness. An uncomfortable silence followed. All of them knew how hard Steve tried to make it work between him and Catherine. But their struggle was obvious, the break-up always deleayed from conversation to conversation yet still very much discussed. Danny resented himself for hoping for a fast albeit painful ending of their relationship. What a selfish and pointless wish. He knew very well that even if it all came to an end it didn't mean a beginning for something else. Something maybe not involving Steve and Catherine but Steve and- It wouldn't happen. And he shouldn't even think about it, not with their current case. First, he should deal with that morderous psychotic who tore people apart with bare hands. Everything else would be seen to later.


	5. A song for your heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took quite a while, I'm super sorry. I still have a big exam coming up and I try to write my bachelor thesis and yeah... I'm still very busy!
> 
> This chapter isn't the beta'd version yet, a few changes will probably happen the next days. I just couldn't let you guys wait any longer. Please enjoy reading!
> 
> Edit: Changes has been made, thanks to the amazing olndina who decided to help me out. I have no words to express my graditude!  
>  
> 
> \- The Pudding

Rays of the rising sun warmed his cheeks gently, rousing him from sleep as much as the earthy smell of freshly brewed coffee. Some distant clattering sounds accompanied cheerful tunes birds twittered on nearby trees; audible even through the closed windows and over the soft humming of the air conditioner. Groaning softly, Phil rolled onto his back and rubbed one hand over his eyes.

This could have been the perfect start of a perfect day – if his stay on Hawaii had been meant for vacation. Contrary to the very tempting thought of doing nothing at all, a day full of work lay ahead of him. Yet, it took him some moments to decide that starring at the white ceiling above him wouldn't get him anywhere.

Turning around, Phil swung his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the fluffy carpet. He didn't particularly like the feeling of its soft fibers tickling between his naked toes so he hurried to stand up and get dressed in one of his suits. Only when he reached for his jacket, he paused. His gaze strayed sideways to the couch next to the room's door. A neatly folded blanket and a spare pillow rested upon it. Untouched.

Of course.

Even though Clint never felt secure enough to sleep alone in a room by himself in a safe house chosen by somebody else, he hadn't sneaked into Phil's room last night like he had done on countless missions before. He'd probably feel even less safe if he had to sleep close to him. Phil had known that.

Yet, he had felt the need to be prepared.

The door to the hallway opened, swishing softly across the carpet. He let it stand open behind him when he moved down the hall, glancing through the other three doors leading to different bedrooms. Two of them seemed to be unoccupied; the bedding pristine, sheets crisp white. Although Clint's duffel bag rested on a chair in one of them, the archer didn't seem to have used the rooms for anything other than storage. Phil was unsurprised by the messy state of the king-size bed in the remaining room. He hadn't imagined the quiet steps in front of his room at nightfall after all. Clint had been tiptoeing around, checking the house thoroughly, despite the functioning alarm system before sneaking into Steve's room and staying where he felt safest.

It was a good sign that the Initiative did wonders for at least some of Clint's issues - a very good sign - no matter the aching sickness spreading low in Phil's guts upon the realization that Steve had only needed a few months to gain Clint's trust, something that had taken years for Phil to earn.

And only one lie to lose.

Rubbing over his forehead once, Phil turned away from the ajar door. Only some more steps and the hallway opened up, merging into the main room which was only separated by a waist-high countertop from the kitchen. A countertop that was covered in brown paper bags from a nearby grocery store - filled to the brim with fresh produce, coffee creamer, juice, enough different cans for several meals. And convenience store donuts, chocolate glazed and powdered sugar. The sight was so familiar, something he was so used to from countless mornings with Strike Team Delta that for a moment, Phil could ignore the tightness in his throat, could forget everything that had happened. Looking up from the bags, he watched Clint moving undisturbed from the coffee machine back to the stove. Phil half expected Natasha to snark at his inability to tear his gaze away from Clint, but, of course, it wasn't her voice that pulled him back to reality.  
The sizzling sound of bacon hitting a hot pan immediately attended by the smell of pork and hickory spurred Phil into reaching for one of the bags to unload. 

“Don't worry, I'll take care of it,” Clint let him know, throwing a glance over his shoulder. Phil shifted as the archer's gaze lingered on his tie and suit for a while.  
“The whole Agent Coulson Armour, huh?” he mumbled under his breath before he turned back to the griddle to flip some pancakes and an omelet a bit messily. His head moved in a tiny shake.  
Phil deemed it easier to just pretend he didn't catch those words.

Since he didn't know what else to do, he sat down at the counter and folded his hands on top of it. Wordlessly, Clint poured more batter into a pan despite the spectacular height of the pile of steaming pancakes towering up on a plate next to him. Even in consideration of Steve's impressive metabolism it seemed a bit excessive. Neither of them commented on it, letting the silence stretch between them instead.

It didn't feel as comfortable as it used to be.

Only when the patio door slid open with a low rattle, Phil breathed somewhat easier. He straightened his spine as he watched Steve entering the house.

“Morning.” He greeted Phil with a polite nod after he'd closed the door behind him, shutting out the sound of waves clashing forcefully with the shallow shore along the beach. Steve's blond hair, shorter than Phil remembered it, was still wet. Stray drops of water ran down his neck to be caught in the towel he had slung around his broad shoulders. Absentmindedly, he rubbed the soft looking material over his neck and the back of his head. His other hand tugged at the damp shirt and shorts clinging to his strong body. Phil swallowed heavily and turned his eyes down to inspect his own finger nails, tapping them on the countertop a few times.

Steve, apparently finished with his drying off, crossed to where Clint stood to inspect breakfast. “Smells good.”  
Clint turned his head and flashed a grin as he responded. “Sure it does. You can't do things wrong with bacon, man.”

“I'm just glad you're not using the tower's arc reactor for frying again...”  
“That was _one time_!”  
“Still gives Tony a heart attack if you mention it around him.”  
“His fault if he doesn't secure his toys better.”

The warmth in Steve's eyes was obvious even from across the kitchen. When he raised his hand to place it on Clint's back, Phil froze. The firm touch appeared casual, natural. Clint didn't flinch, just laughed about something else Steve mentioned, but those words were blocked out as Phil's vision narrowed down to Steve's fingers; curving around Clint's shoulder, squeezing into the moving muscle. Phil didn't know how long he just stared at both men, only realized that Steve didn't release his grasp until the coffee machine made some complicated whistling noise, requesting attention immediately. With an impatient wave of his hand Clint shooed Steve away to sit next to Phil at the kitchen counter, where the wavering stack of pancakes and some plates were placed in front of them. Clint turned around to fuss with the still beeping machine.

Steve said something that Phil couldn't quite catch, but he made a noncommittal grunt all the same. He reached for a plate and a fork and briefly contemplated whether it would be rude if he opened a packet of donuts instead of eating any of the fluffy pancakes. Before he came to a conclusion, though, a plate was already slid into his hands. The scent of perfectly fried eggs curled upwards into his nose, giving him a hint of the delicious taste of the still sizzling omelet. Phil hadn't expected Clint to be mindful of his breakfast preferences, actually, it seemed pretty ridiculous that he would bear those in mind. A muscle in Phil's jaw tightened.

“Something wrong, Sir?”

“Nothing, Captain” Phil croaked out, “except for our mission. This is not a vacation, gentlemen, and we cannot afford to waste our time with some leisurely breakfast, or by taking a morning swim in the ocean. Please keep that in mind and get ready. McGarrett and Williams will be here any minute.”

“But-” Clint gestured at his own plate.

“No buts, Barton. Get your gear. You can eat in the car.”

The other men exchanged glances before dropping their dishes and cutlery. They got up and exited the room without another word.  
The stool protested with a loud creak when Phil pushed himself away from the counter. Eying the omelet like its mere existence was a personal insult, he reached at least for his mug of coffee before he turned away from the breakfast table to gather his own documents.

This was not a vacation, not some kind of training camp to reintegrate Phil into the Initiative.

And even less a method to reestablish trust between Clint and him.

As always, duty would crush his emotions, and if that didn't work, Phil would ignore them like he had always done before. He could do this.

Taking a sip from the cup, Phil paused in the door frame to his room for a moment to savor the flavor, the aroma, the warmth. It was good, really good. They way he liked best.

Phil put the mug down on his bedside table with a grimace, grabbing some dossiers from his suitcase. He could already hear a car pulling up in front of the house, doors slamming and Williams muffled voice complaining about something. When Phil left the room, he abandoned the coffee.

He really wished it hadn't tasted that good.

~

Five-0 headquarters were plain. Clean and organized. No newly developed, unlicensed weapons lying around unsecured, no holograms floating through the air bathing workbenches and materials in artificial blue light. No empty coffee mugs scattered on every flat surface, squeezed in between dog-eared secret files, random tools and obscure electronic schematics. It was refreshing, some offices with glass walls, simple flat screen monitors on neat desks and a heavy computer table in the main room. Less refreshing were the pictures of a corpse Phil could spot on its polished surface.

“Let me introduce you to Marc Fallon or, well, what's left of him,” Detective Kelly started the briefing without preamble, swiping with both hands across the computer table to transfer some pictures to a bunch of screens attached to the wall.

“I don't think that _what's left of him_ even begins to describe the situation rudimentarily,” Williams quipped in with a snort as everyone gathered around the table, fixing their eyes on the screens.  
“It's everything our forensic team could secure this morning. He was found by a cleaner in his hotel room at seven and probably died five or six hours prior. He'd been violently torn apart; his legs were found by the door, the rest of his body in the bathroom. Traces of blood indicate that he actually managed to crawl the distance by himself before his ribcage had been crushed and ripped open.” Kelly paused at this point. Even though his voice hadn't wavered a fraction, he seemed to need a moment to compose himself. Than he showed them the close-up pictures of Mr. Fallons skull.

_“Jesus!”_

“How did you identify this guy?” asked Clint into the following silence. His posture was still, the expression on his face just as even. He had seen worse, Phil knew that. A lot had happened on their joint missions.

“Enough of his teeth were still intact to use dental documents.” The calm composure, the serene way of sharing information were some of Detective Kelly's major traits Phil couldn't appreciate enough. The Hawaiian arranged another row of pictures on the table, replacing some of the crime scene photos with a copy of Fallon's driving license, a homepage from some estate agency and pictures taken at the autopsy. “It wasn't much to work with but our specialist in the forensic lab isn't discouraged that easily,” Kelly added.

“What happened to the rest of Fallon's face?” Steve's question was phrased hesitantly, making it seem as if he didn't really want to know the answer but needed to hear it.

“Ripped off. Our coroner is not absolutely certain yet but it's highly possible it happened with bare hands.”  
“Which explains what that guy has to do with our case... Same abnormal COD, same sick murderer.” Williams sighed with a little whine in his voice. “The Berserk.”

“But we still don't know the motive. Fallon was a business man who's gotten rich with a property agency service on the mainland.” Kalakaua spoke up. “I don't see the connection to your people.”  
The whole Five-0 team turned away from the screens to face Phil, anticipation clear on their faces. He only raised an eyebrow at them, stretching the pause a little longer, waiting for one of them to put the unspoken question into words. It was McGarrett who gave in first. “Is there a connection?”

“No. Marc Fallon doesn't work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. All our agents send to Hawaii are back on base. Or dead.” Phil folded his arms in front of his chest, posture stoic and deliberate.

“And that's all you gonna add? There is nothing you'd like to contribute to our _little problem_ here?” Williams' hands darted through the air in sharp, precise movements, underlining his words expressly. Apparently, he liked to use expansive gestures quite often, practiced to perfection. It didn't especially impress Phil.

The full weight of the deaths of eight agents-in-training laced Phil's answer. “No.”

“You can't be- That guy can't be serious. Are you serious? Really, really serious?” the Detective demanded clarification as well as an explanation, turning in disbelief from Phil to his own team and back again.

“That's how S.H.I.E.L.D. works. Keeping secrets from everyone and expecting them to just shrug it off when they figure out the truth by pure chance,” Clint offered not even slightly helpful, seeming relaxed and careless by the way he shrugged his shoulders for emphasis and buried both hands in his pockets. When Phil stared at him for his unusual interjection of personal matters in such a tense conversation, Clint continued his uncooperative approach without batting an eye. “You gotta put up with it or we gonna do this without you. Your choice.”

“Do you really think we'd let you investigate by yourself? We are responsible for the safety of Hawaii and we will have to answer for your actions not only to the governor but every other citizen. Do not operate without permission!”  
“Is that an order, Commander McGarrett?”  
“Yes. Yes, in fact, it is, _Captain Rogers_.”

Steve and McGarrett glared at each other, chins raised in silent challenge, moths set in thin lines. Phil refrained from rolling his eyes, about to step in when a voice sounded from the entrance.  
“Good morning!”  
The cheerfulness was such an odd, almost inappropriate contrast to the tension between the two posturing men that they slowly let their gazes stray from the other one. Only then Phil inhaled deeply and turned towards the newcomer.

“Agent Coulson? The news reached me you have been involved in a deadly incident.” The small man clad in scrubs and a white coat, glasses perched carefully on the bridge of his nose, came closer to the table, addressing Phil with a mixture of a deep frown and a friendly smile on his features.

“Not that deadly, obviously,” Phil responded drily, turning that expression to a complete smile as he offered his hand to Doctor Bergman for a warm handshake.  
“Well, I'm glad it wasn't. Agent Barton.” The Doctor nodded in Clint's direction who shot him a two-fingered salute.

“Hey, what-?”  
“I would like to inform all of you about a discovery,” Bergman interrupted Williams before the Detective could even find the right words to phrase his question. While handing over some records to Phil, he carried on untroubled. “I found residues of an indeterminable substance on Mr. Fallon's corpse as well as the other eight bodies. For that matter, I am truly sorry about your loss, agents. Just now, Doctor Fong from the HPD forensic lab is trying to identify the chemical composition. Maybe the formula will help to identify the culprit.”

“Thank you,” Phil nodded, skimming through the file with decreasing interest. These test results didn't offer a new insight, and were nothing more than frustrating. The Berserk -if it even was only a single person- acted faster than expected. There would be more victims. They needed an addition to the team if they wanted to prevent an escalation of the circumstances. Features set in in determination, Phil closed the file and handed it back.

“Doctor Bergman, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s offer still stands. I'd like you to reconsider it. Everyone else, please excuse me, I have to make a call.”


	6. But when it is quiet

"You don't look happy, Danny."

Not deeming the statement worthy of more than a scowl, Danny tore his gaze away from the landscape passing by his window to level his stare at Steve. For a few seconds he contemplated to ask what had betrayed his mood with a sneer. Instead he shook his head and leaned back in his seat.

"Tell me," Steve urged him after some moments of silence, tone unusual gentle. Danny hesitated a bit longer, drawing out the silence. Finally, he slumped down and sighed.

"It's just - as far as I am concerned, this is not part of an investigation. Which means in conclusion that we, you and me,” Danny explained, waving his left hand slowly, almost exhausted between them, “We are not doing our jobs right now and I sincerely do not like that.”

Steve nodded, gripping the steering wheel firmer with both of his hands while he checked the rear-view mirror. “I don't like it either, but those S.H.I.E.L.D. people decided to invite another one of their friends to this messed up party. And I would even like it less if we didn't drive to the airport to meet the new guy ourselves,” he responded after turning into the lane leading to the airport entrance.

“Yes, I know. I still wish we could have gone with Kono and Chin to take a look at that hotel Fallon has been found in,” Danny grumbled back, chewing on his lower lip. “Playing tourist guide wasn't part of the job description-”  
“If there ever had been a job description in the first place,” Steve interrupted drily. Under Danny's renewed scrutiny a wide grin spread on his features as if he was actually proud of the way he'd recruited Danny years ago.

“You, my friend, are unbelievable,” he muttered and turned back to face his window again, directing his quiet smile at it.

It was minutes later, when they left the airport building to walk out where private jets dropped off their passengers. Heat radiated off the dark asphalt under their feet, matching the bright sunshine from above. Suddenly, even going to the beach seemed to be more appealing to Danny than approaching the already gathered S.H.I.E.L.D. team. Standing next to them, he could sense Steve shifting next to him in grim anticipation.

All eyes were trained on a jet slowly rolling closer. Its bright red color beamed in the sunlight, throwing reflections onto the ground around it. Danny squinted his eyes when it came to an halt and the door opened witch an audible hissing noise. Clad in a red Hawaiian shirt, clashing shorts and a pair of sandals, a small figure appeared in the door frame. A pink drink was waved in their direction, followed by colorful leis.

“Oh wow...” Danny sighed. He'd expected everything. But not this.

“O Captain, my Captain – have some flowers in celebration of my arrival!” Tony Stark proclaimed. Before Rogers could even open his mouth to utter some protest, a flower garland was hung around his neck. A heartbeat later, Stark spun around on his heel, flashing his bright grin at Barton. “Don't look so sour, Braveheart. I've got enough for everyone.”

Barton's hard glare didn't waver a fraction. Not a single muscle moved. Some moments of silence passed between the two men. Then Stark draped a lei over the agent's crossed arms tentatively, patting his elbow a few times. “I'm glad to see you too, buddy. Who's next? Oh – Agent!” 

“That's ridiculous,” Danny muttered as he watched Stark handing out the leis in a parody of the usual greeting of tourists and guests. Just as he glanced over to Steve to gauge his reaction, he could feel flowers brushing over his hair too. They tickled against his cheeks briefly, then settled around his neck. Automatically, Danny reached up to touch them. The petals felt cool beneath his fingertips, smooth and delicate. A fresh fragrance arose from the blossoms.

“Name? Profession?” Stark asked in a curt, practical way, pushing way too close into Danny's personal space.

“Danny Williams, Detective Sergeant-" He only managed to reply those few words automatically. Next thing he knew was a hand waving right in front of his face, almost touching his nose. 

"Awesome." Stark's voice sounded dismissive as he turned away. Danny sucked in a deep breath. "And You?"

“Steve McGarrett-” Steve grumbled next to him.

“Really? A second Steve? That's rather confusing... Profession?” Stark interrupted again, just waiting a split second for Steve to answer before continuing. “Commander? Good. Cap and Com it is. Perfect.” He pointed at Steve and Rogers for emphasis, then clapped his hands obviously satisfied with himself.

"Did you just call a former Navy Seal _Com_?" Barton snorted, either suppressing another huff and an eye-roll or a full belly laughter. Danny wasn't quiet sure.

“I guess I just did that,” Stark nodded.

"Is he always like this?" Danny couldn't help but wonder aloud. At that, Coulson tilted his head towards him, shaking it slightly. "Oh no, absolutely not."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Danny tried to set away any prejudices about insanely rich people he'd only ever seen on TV before. Just as his nerves were soothed, the agent added: "Today he's acting rather well-behaved."

A headache started to throb behind his eyes.

~

Loud laughter resounded from the computer table. Against his will, Danny lifted his head a bit. He let his eyes wander from the paperwork in front of him to where they had left Stark to tinker around with the technique. There were some noises, then the unmistakable error sound blurted through the office, making Danny's fingers clutch at his pen. He hated that sound.

Pushing away from his desk in a swift motion, Danny stood up and went to his office's door. Steve stood beside him seconds later.

"And what exactly is he doing?" Danny hissed at Steve who just shrugged his shoulders. Exchanging a few glances and faces, both of them moved from Danny's office into the main room. Barton was sitting in a chair close by, legs crossed. Just where Coulson and Rogers had seated him before they'd set out to do something somewhere. Coulson's few worded explanation hadn't been particularly enlightening.

A quiet clicking sound snapped Danny's attention to Barton's hands. Noticing the gun between his fingers, Danny's hand twitched down, reaching for the gun strapped to his hip without thinking. He suppressed the urge to draw it, but the confirmation of its presence calmed him at least a bit. Meanwhile, Barton continued to dismantle his gun just to put it back together, not seeming to care about Danny and Steve or Stark's conduct - Or the man's ongoing laughter.

"Long time no see, Bill. Tiles? Really?" He snorted amused, tapping away on the smooth surface of the table. Apparently, he opened up a website - _tonystarkisowesome.net_ if Danny read it correctly. A great number of windows popped up, asking for authentication, identification, passwords and scans. Some even demanded answers to weird questions. Just looking at the suddenly chaotic screen made Danny's head spin.

"If you're wondering about the owesome, well, _tonystarkisawesome_ was already taken. Those fans...” Stark explained without being asked. Both of his hands were resting flat on the table by now, the screen scanning them inch by inch. 

“What are you doing? What's going on here?” Danny demanded to know in a sharp tone. From the corner of his eye, he noticed that Steve's hand also rested on his gun by now. Barton didn't move at all, but Danny was sure nothing escaped the man's attention. Tension tingled in Danny's gut, preparing him for action.

“Activate outsourced partying protocol.” Stark's voice was calm, almost a bit smug. Before any interjection could be expressed, a British accented voice sounded from the speakers. “Voice verification positive. Download of files needed for the establishment of a temporary interface completed. Installation and overwriting processes begin.”

_“What is this?!”_

Faced with Danny's anger Stark only smirked.

“That's Jarvis. Which is some super unnecessary abbreviation for something fancy I don't care to memorize,” Barton quipped in. “It's the AI that does everything for him. I still vote for Iron Jarvis instead of Iron Man.”

“Haha. Now that was funny, birdbrain.” Stark and Barton shared a long glare until the AI spoke again, causing Danny to almost jump in surprise.

“Installation and overwriting processes finished. Temporary interface was successfully established,” it said. Immediately, the screen changed to a new design and light blue background. Danny stared at it in disbelief.

“Welcome to Hawaii, Mr. Stark. May I add that I vote for Iron Jarvis as well?”

~

So many noises filled the air.

Roaring engines, squealing tires. Shrill laughter. Stomping, clapping, pounding. Snapping of branches, scrunching of sand. Moaning of stones under the pressure of countless feet. Harsh sounding foreign languages everywhere, unknown voices raised against the silence of solitude.

Barely there, underlying it all: The familiar whisper of the wind breezing through the quiet woods, telling stories from lands far far away. The soft mumble of the ocean; cheerful waves meeting unyielding land. A gentle rumble deep within in the earth.

It wouldn't be long until the urban fuss drowned out those delicate melodies.  
And the haoles were to blame, for they brought more and more of their own to the islands.

But there was a way to end this  
It just required some more noises.

Cracking bones, squeaking joints and ripping muscles. Blood dripping, guts splashing. Muffled screams followed by groans of pain. Teeth rattling in a crushed skull, clicking on the floor. A last dull impact on the floor and then...

Blessed silence.


	7. I know what it means

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took forever. I still feel like I am screaming into the void with this thing here. So I'd be overjoyed to hear your thoughts on this, thank you. :)

As always, Clint continued to be ridiculously stubborn.

Every morning of the following week a cup of coffee would sit on the kitchen counter, clearly waiting for Phil to pick it up and drink. A plate with donuts right next to it, sometimes even freshly made French toast or masaladas from a nearby bakery. Phil never touched the food, just sipped some of the coffee when neither Steve nor Clint were around.

Every hot drop on his tongue felt like a bitter defeat, the earthy taste only rousing long repressed feelings. A longing for things Phil couldn't have.

He never drank more than half a cup.

The drive to Five-0 HQ was always spend in silence except for the small sounds of Steve's fingers tapping against his own knees. More often than not Phil actually wished for Tony's presence, for his ongoing rambling. Anything to lift the mood, when Clint's features were set in a dark frown, his eyes hidden behind his shades. Phil didn't need to see them to know what kind of glare Clint trained outside the window. None of them spoke a single word.

Breakfast wouldn't be ready for him anymore in a few days, Phil guessed. It was probably better that way.

When they pulled into the parking lot at HQ, Tony was always awaiting them, vibrating with restless energy. As soon as he understood why Phil wanted him on this mission, he'd thrown himself into work, not seeming to care about sleep or food. Or really anything else at all. Fortunately, Charlie Fong and Dr. Bergman were part of his team and kept an eye on him. When necessary they forced him to stop, go back to his private mansion and get some rest.

Still, he was always the first to arrive at Five-0 headquarters.

Usually, they discussed their next steps, ending with Phil giving everyone orders for the day. They'd split up. Tony headed to the labs to work on the corpses. Clint and Steve searched on different crime scenes for missed clues. And Phil would try to put everything together. It took a while but after some days it all seemed to make sense and Phil knew it was time. Five-0 still tolerated them, but only with gritted teeth and clenched fists. Their patience was wearing thin. They wanted and needed their questions answered.

“Briefing at 0900.” Phil's decision caused curt nods around him, Clint's nothing more then a jerk of his chin. Phil balled his fingers to fists and gave a nod on his own when he didn't know what else he should add. Tongue-tied, he turned around on his heel and approached the building.

~

One of the screens not filled with pictures of Berserk victims flickered, gave a little hum. Finally, it came to life, showing the Science Team in their lab. Tony in the middle, Bergman and Fong by his sides. All three of them had their brows furrowed, the corners of their mouths twitching downward. A perfect mirroring of the expectant expressions set on Kalakaua's and Williams' faces. McGarrett aimed for a more terrifying look as he glared hard at Phil's back. He could almost feel the weight of McGarrett's stare between his shoulder blades.

“Those corpses were found about two months ago.” Kelly pointed at the pictures on screen. His voice wafted between them, somewhat soothing the growing tension. Phil nodded and tapped once on the computer table. The screen glowed in a blue light as Jarvis put the victims in a neat row, ordered chronologically by the time of their death. Right next to them another row of pictures appeared, showing IDs of different men and women.

“We were able to secure traces of human tissue in every open case you incorrectly associated with only one perp. Analyzing the samples lead us to these people. Students, house wives, teachers, nurses, a doctor, a lawyer.” Phil gestured at the pictures he referred to, Jarvis highlighting those for a few moments. “Mostly ordinary people, just a few guys already known for committing little crimes.”

“Whereas victim and murderer were always acquainted with each other, I could not find any lead that indicated possible contact between the others,” Jarvis continued. On screen the pictures were arranged in a new order; victim-culprit pairs stayed together but encircled a new face popping up in the middle. “However, granted access to S.H.I.E.L.D. servers enabled me to find their connection. Akamai Kalani, head of the local trafficking group producing and selling the R.A.G.E. drug.” 

“The what drug? Rage – what?” Williams' hands flew up into the air when he turned away from the screens and faced the row of windows on the other side of the room. Phil could hear him mutter a few other words and decided to not grant him the time to work himself up into a full blown rant.

“R.A.G.E. - Reinforcing Aggression Gyrusial Euphoriant,” he pressed on, fixing his eyes on Williams whose whole body twisted back in one single motion. His features were set in a deep frown, a complain already formed on his lips: “Gyrusial? Is that even a word?”

“Somebody really wanted the word rage as abbreviation.” Kalakaua's snort accompanied Williams' eye roll. It seemed strangely practiced.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. loves that shit,” Tony's voice resounded from the speakers. “Hey, Agent, do you have a division for it? I might have some suggestions! How about Person Enabling Proper Personal-”  
“Mr. Stark, may I point out that Miss Potts is not fond of jokes referring to her name, person and, or work?”  
“Sometimes I wonder which side you are on, Jarvis...” Tony's reply ended in an unintelligible mutter.

Feeling that the situation was slipping out of his hands, Phil cleared his throat loudly. Eyes and attention snapped back to him when he tapped on the table. They had other problems to discuss then naming preferences and bad puns. For once, it was McGarrett who shared his opinion.

“What does this R.A.G.E. stuff do?” the former Navy Seal asked, voice nothing more then a dark rumble. His concern was obvious, it radiated from his stiff posture, the intense stare he trained at Phil. A sudden sympathy for a man concerned about his people's safety bloomed in his chest but Phil stifled it immediately. As good as some feelings of bonding would be for this whole operation, this was not the time for it.

“R.A.G.E. is sold at a very cheap prize and promised to have cocaine-like effects. Which it does - for the first two doses. People high on their third dose report a sudden rush of wrath and aggression three or four hours after consumption. This rush of the third and every following dose ends in extremely violent behavior none of the consumers can remember. According to statements of these three-” Phil said calmly, pointing at different pictures on screen, “the morning after the high could be compared to a normal hangover. Except for the blood they were covered in. They haven't consumed R.A.G.E. since then but we decided to send all of them to S.H.I.E.L.D. facilities for rehab. Since the drug has a very high level of addiction potential we decided to eliminate the possibility of relapse.”

A loud snort interrupted Phil and he had to withstand the urge to roll his eyes at the Detective. He decided to level a pointed stare at him instead.

“That is your great plan then? Waiting for people to take that rage drug nonsense, go on a rampage on our island, kill someone before the effect wears of and then what? Collect them and send them god knows where for... for reconditioning or what?” Before Phil could open his mouth to correct Williams outburst and bring attention back to the facts, it was Kalakaua who stepped in, her determination obvious.

“We need to find Alani. We need to stop the production and selling of that drug as soon as possible.” From the corner of his eyes, Phil could see Clint flashing a small smile at that. She was the kind of person they always worked best with, catching up fast and offering solid solutions.

“Akamai Alani has been killed by Elena Bossew, member of Shield's Strike Team Zeta five weeks ago. A clear headshot as her report states.” Jarvis' reply was accompanied by forms popping up, all of them neatly filled in. The relevant paragraphs were highlighted, more sensitive information blacked out.

“If that already happened five weeks ago, how is it possible that people still get high on those drugs?” Kelly asked into the following silence.

“The assigned Clean Up Team is all dead. They couldn't finish their job and that's why we're here,” Steve said. He was still hovering close to the door, ready to spring into action at Phil's command. The thought let a shudder run through his whole body.

“Alright, alright. That means someone out there has this R.A.G.E. stuff – we don't know how much. We don't know how many are already addicted. We don't know how many have died or will die. We don't know where to start searching. Is there, in fact, anything we _do_ know?”

Phil turned back to Williams with a low sigh. As much as he loathed to admit it but there really was not much they could offer.

“All new victims were murdered by the same person, that much is clear. The harm done to the bodies exceeds everything we have seen so far that happened under R.A.G.E. influence. The amount of drugs that person takes is probably close to OD. So either they kill themselves soon and we have a long search ahead of us or we find them in time to get them to tell us where the drugs are hidden.” With each word he spoke, Phil drew himself up a little more to hold Willams piercing gaze. His heart was beating frantically against his ribs, blood rushing in his ears. He didn't know what else to do, what to say if he got asked for a strategy. He didn't have any, nothing would come to his mind. Even though he had spent so many days putting all the information together, no plan had started to form at the back of his head like he was used to. Where confidence had been nothing was left. Clint was right not to trust him. Phil couldn't even trust himself. He swallowed harshly, bracing himself for the worst.

The dreaded question wasn't asked.

“All new victims have been people from the mainland, right? We should talk to Kawika. Just make sure his people are not getting into this. And maybe someone knows at least something.”  
“You're right, Danny. If anyone knows what happens on the Island it's the Kapu. Chin, Kono, try talking to Kamekona. See if he can help in any way. Take Agent Coulson with you. Captain, Specialist Barton, you're with us.”

Before Phil could utter another word everyone was already moving, following McGarrett's orders. Mouth open in surprise, he gaped at the backs of the four men heading out without even sparing him another glance. Shoulders were drawn back tightly, their stride fast and powerful. These were four men on a mission.

Phil closed his mouth, pressed his lips into a thin line.

No further instructions were needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. ♥


End file.
